


There and Back Again

by Chiefest_of_Calamities



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Gen, Stephen King - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-12
Updated: 2014-02-26
Packaged: 2017-12-19 06:11:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/880356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chiefest_of_Calamities/pseuds/Chiefest_of_Calamities
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson joins the Long Walk, and meets people he never expected to. There's Lestrade, who is doing this for his children, and there's Anderson, who's doing it because he can. And then there's Sherlock, who John cannot figure out at all, and who proves to be the most fascinating person he's ever met. Cross-posted at ff.net.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is inspired by Stephen King's 'The Long Walk', which is an absolutely gorgeous piece of work. If you have not already encountered it, I'd recommend holding off until after you've read the story because it wouldn't be half as much fun otherwise. 
> 
> As always, reviews would be greatly appreciated. 
> 
> A beta (if anyone wants to volunteer) would not go amiss either.

Prologue

 

The sun crested over the top of Buckingham Palace, bathing the square underneath in a wet light. The only evidence of the light drizzle that fell earlier were the small puddles on the uneven groves of the road and the relative coolness of the air. Altogether, it made for a rare day of comfortable travel for Londoners.

Which was why there were more people than anticipated gathered on the fringes of the Palace and packed into the park flanking the palace. People were sitting on the railings and picnicking by the small stream. People were talking in hushed whispers, as if afraid to break the tension the air, and people were staring at them as if they were both jealous and thankful not to be in their position.

It made John feel slightly sick.

The man next to John straightened up from tying his laces – his shoes were not new, John noted, which was wise – and caught his eye.

"Wonderful way to start, isn't it?"

John shrugged. He would have preferred a cloudy day, when it felt like the world wasn't so insistent on pushing into his private spaces, but to each, his own.

"I'm Anderson," the stranger offered, seemingly searching for conversation.

"John. John Watson."

A huff of breath interrupted them. John looked away from Anderson to see a tall, dark-haired man glaring at them. For a moment, he forgot where he was, what he was about to do. He forgot his interrupted conversation with Anderson. He forgot to breathe.

The man was beautiful. His features were alien; too pale, his cheekbones too prominent, too visibly thin even through the dark coat that billowed around him like a cape, but he was undeniably beautiful.

He looked like he was used to being stared at, because he huffed again and said "Exchanging names, really? Do you think you're here for some dinner party?"

"That's no reason to be impolite," Anderson interjected, and John felt a slight tremor of irritation run through him. The stranger was right – this was not the time and place to be making friends. Every last one of the fifty men gathered there were his competitors, his enemies.

Cheekbones – yes, that was what John was going to call him – shrugged. "Suit yourselves. Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side."

It was the most absurd proclamation John had heard in a long time. The utter confidence with which Cheekbones said it, though, stopped him from laughing out loud. Anderson fell silent beside him, and bent down to check his laces again. There would be no time to re-tie them on the road.

Somewhere in the distance, some official was calling the men to the starting line. John took the opportunity to glance around him, sizing up the competition.

There was a couple of police officers, that much he could tell; it was in their bearing, their confident pace, the way they stuck their shoulders as if to say 'the situation is under control'. There was an older man amongst them, with dark hair silvering. He looked too old for this.

On the other hand, there were some boys too, fit and lithe and nervously jovial. They looked well-fed and happy, and John wondered why they had chosen this for themselves. Courage of the young, perhaps? They were still young enough that their confidence hadn't been shattered by the harshness of life yet, so young that they still sincerely believed that they could make it.

John stopped then, and wondered why he chose the Walk if he didn't expect to make it.

Before he could answer his own question, the starting shot was fired. John took off, never to look back.


	2. First Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things get a little more serious. Also featuring ninja!victorlock

The crowd’s cheers followed the Walkers as they moved through the park. Several of the Walkers, Anderson included, broke into a fast jog, driven by adrenaline and support. The soldiers trailing behind them sped up too, the tracking guns unwavering in their grasp. 

John forced himself to take a few deep breaths. It was still painfully early in the race and it was not the time to be losing his head. He tried to distract himself by watching the crowd; there were banners and cards being held up, most of them featuring a smiling blonde man John had come to recognise as Victor Trevor. He was the bookies’ favourite to win the race – coming from nobility dating back to Queen Victoria’s days and a cricket champion to boot – Trevor was the perfect propaganda piece. It didn’t work. He found his attention being drawn back to the jeeps trundling beside them in the half-track, and wondered whether he might be able to recognise any of his mates from basic training or deployment amongst them. It didn’t seem likely; their faces were cold and hard behind their hooded helmets. John wondered whether any of his old friends would be able to recognise him as he was now.

The cheering ebbed and rose as they exited the park and made their way to the motorway. The city folk were forbidden to exit the city limits without passes, so the road to Windsor Palace, where the Walkers would meet Her Royal Highness Britannia Incarnate, would be blissfully clear of people. 

As they neared the city limits, John found himself releasing a breath he hadn’t known he held. The Walkers who were running earlier slowed down, and instinctively huddled closer to the remaining Walkers. 

A sudden call broke the silence, jolting everyone into alertness. “Warning, number 11.”  
John turned around to see who it was who had gotten his first warning so early in the race, but he couldn’t see over the mass of bodies behind him. 

A voice from his right distracted him from that endeavour. “That was pretty smart, actually.” It was the silver-haired police officer he had seen earlier. 

“Sorry?”

“He slowed down on purpose to gauge how slow he can afford to go, when push comes to shove. I don’t think you’ll catch him slowing down again today.”

John nodded. It was a smart thing to do, but also incredibly reckless. “We’ll all soon be wishing we had done that, I think.”

“That’s a bit pessimistic, I think,” a voice to his left said. John turned around to see a vaguely familiar face – good-natured, with well-sculpted cheekbones and a thatch of floppy blonde hair – by his side. 

The guy continued talking, either not noticing John’s confused expression or refusing to acknowledge it. “I don’t think we’ll be losing anyone anytime soon.”

“In fair weather and on flat roads, no. But once we get past Windsor, we’ll get off the motorway and onto the country paths. Just wait until we have to climb Snowden in pissing rain.”

“Well, we’ll see when the time comes,” Blonde Guy said. “I’m Victor, by the way, although you probably already know that.”

And then John knew why he was so familiar. 

“John.”

As PC Silver opened his mouth to offer his own name, John caught a glimpse of dark curly hair and a long black coat a little ways ahead of them, and the memory of what the strange man had said made him snort. 

“What?”

“You might be want to careful about introducing yourself. Cheekbones over there doesn’t approve, and he won’t hesitate to tell you.”

Victor and Silver both looked over, and John saw a recognition flash across both their faces. “What, is he another favourite?”

“Nah,” Silver said. “I just know him, and I’m not surprised at all. What did he say?”

“I quote ‘Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side.’”

Victor and Silver both laugh. “Sounds just like him, the utter pompous bastard.”

“I knew him too, a little ways back,” Victor said. “But if you told me he’d be doing the Walk one day, I’d have called you crazy.”

Victor then raised his voice and called out “Oy, Sherlock!”

So that was his name, John thought. Sherlock. What an odd thing. 

Cheekbones – Sherlock – whipped around at the sound of his name, and John saw shock cross his features for the briefest of moments. He slowed down slightly and barrelled his way through a couple of Walkers to get to them. 

“What are you doing here?” he asked Victor, without the slightest hint of friendliness in his voice.

Victor laughed. “Good God, don’t tell me you managed to miss all the coverage? I’m the fan favourite, dah-ling. What are you doing here?”

“Do you think this is a game?”

“I’d ask the same of you, Sunshine,” Silver said. 

“I don’t remember asking for your opinion, Lestrade.” 

The situation looked like it was getting heated, and John saw a group of soldiers monitoring them closely. That was never good news.

“We’re being watched,” he said quietly. The squabbling trio stopped talking, and, after shooting a particularly poisonous glare at Victor, Sherlock stalked off. 

He didn’t so much as glance at them for the rest of the day. 

XXXXX

They reached Windsor Castle a few hours after the sunset, and were greeted with floodlights and more cheering crowds. Britannia Incarnate, the seventh of her line, stood atop a large float and waved at the Walkers as they passed by. Several of the younger Walkers bowed low to her as they walked by and commented on her beauty, but the only thing John could remember of the encounter was that her smile looked cold. 

There were soldiers standing at the castle’s exit, handing out packs of MREs and water canteens. John took his rations gratefully. He wondered vaguely where they were supposed to go next, but there were Walkers in front of him and soldiers following quietly by their side, so he wasn’t too worried. 

As they left the gleaming lights of the castle behind, Lestrade wandered back to his side. John found himself happy to see the older man. 

“So how do you know Sherlock?” 

Lestrade shrugged. “I was the last of the old guard – you know, back in the day when the police dealt with things like murder and theft and fraud, before the army took over and left us enforcing ASBOs and directing traffic. I was just a constable then, of course, but I remember what it was like. Sherlock, well, he has very unique interests. When he found out, he used to drop by my office to ask what it was like. Oh look, speak of the devil.”

John looked ahead to see Sherlock stuffing the contents of his pack into various pockets in his coat, surprisingly trailed by none other than Victor Trevor. If Sherlock knew Victor was behind him, he was resolutely ignoring the other man. 

“What’s their story?” John wondered aloud to Lestrade. 

Lestrade shrugged. “Haven’t the faintest. Sherlock’s never mentioned Victor to me. It makes sense that they might have been in school together. I don’t see why either of them are doing the Walk.” 

They fell silent after that, because John didn’t feel like sharing why he was doing this. Lestrade didn’t seem too comfortable with the topic either. 

At sunrise, Sherlock deigned to speak to Lestrade. 

“You’re not going to win, you know.”

Lestrade, to John’s surprise, did not look upset. “I’d be happy just beating you.”

“Hardly likely.” He sighed the sigh of a long-suffering parent. “Do you have the time? I somehow lost mine last night.”

“Sorry, I left my watch behind.”

“Here, take mine.” John slipped his watch off his wrist and held it out to Sherlock. 

Sherlock looked genuinely surprised at the offering. His fingers, as they carefully extracted the watch from John’s hands, were cold and firm. “Thank you.”

“This is John,” Lestrade said. 

Sherlock finished strapping the watch to his wrist and looked over. John met his gaze, and again, the world fell away. It was as if those cold blue eyes were looking straight into him, past the wall he had carefully crafted around himself when he first found himself back in London, and taking stock of all the parts that made him John Watson. 

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” he asked, finally. 

“What?”

“I said Afghanistan or Iraq.”

“Afghanistan. Who told you?”

“No one. I know the same way I know that you’ve recently been invalided home and that you’ve got a brother who’s worried about you, but whom you won’t go to for help, possibly because he left his wife, more likely because of his H-pill habit. Oh, and your therapist thinks your limp is psychosomatic, quite correctly, I’m afraid.”

John had never faced anything like this before, but it was thrilling. “How did you know?”

“I didn’t know, I saw. Your haircut, the way you hold yourself says military. Your face is tanned, but no tan above the wrist, so you’ve been abroad but not sunbathing. You limped slightly at the Palace before we started, but you’ve been walking steadily for the past day, so your wound’s at least partly psychosomatic, which suggests that the injury was traumatic. Wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan, Afghanistan or Iraq.”

He said all of that without breathing, John thought vaguely. “You said I have a therapist.”

“You’re a soldier with a psychosomatic limp, of course you’ve got a therapist. And then there’s your watch.”

“What about it?”

“It’s expensive. Look at your clothes – jumper, jeans, walking shoes - practical, but hardly costly. You’re not looking to flaunt your wealth, so you wouldn’t waste money on this. Scratches, not one, but many over time – it’s been in the same pocket and keys and coins. The man walking next to me wouldn’t treat his one luxury item like this, so it’s had a previous owner. The next bit’s easy, you know it already.”

“The engraving?”

Sherlock nodded. “Harry Watson, clearly a family member who gave you his watch. Not your father, this is a young man’s style. Could be a cousin, but you were alone at the beginning of the Walk and you haven’t been scanning the crowd for familiar faces, so unlikely you’ve got an extended family, certainly not one you’re close to. So brother it is.” 

Lestrade coughed pointedly, and Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Well, clearly there are exceptions to the rule that Walkers are free of attachments. Now Clara, who’s Clara? Three kisses says it’s a romantic relationship, expense of the watch says wife, not girlfriend. This model’s fairly recent, about a year old. A year and he’s just giving it away? If she’d left him, he’d have kept it; people do, sentiment. But no, he wanted to get rid of it, he left her. He gave the phone to you, probably with an exhortation about how you’re supposed to give it back to him at the end of the Walk, so he clearly cares about you. I asked you for the time, and you just gave me your brother’s watch? That says you’ve got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife. Maybe you don’t like his H-pill habit.”

“How could you possibly know about the H-pill habit?”

A slight smile lifted the corners of Sherlock’s lips. “Shot in the dark. Good one though.” He extended his hand to John’s line of sight. “Hinges and buckle. They’re scuffed and rusted. This is an expensive watch. You’d never see those marks on a sober man’s phone, never see an addict’s without them.”

When Sherlock drew his hand back, he exhaled visibly, like a train winding down. 

John looked at the man walking by his side, quite unable to believe his eyes. He turned to see Lestrade, who had fallen a bit behind them. “Yeah, he’s always like that.”

“That was…amazing.”

Sherlock looked surprised, again. “You really think so?”

John nodded. Of course he thought so, how could anyone not? “It was extraordinary, quite extraordinary.”

“That’s not what people usually say.”

“What do people usually say?”

“Piss off.” Sherlock smiled a little at that, and John couldn’t help the laughter that bubbled out of him. 

After a while, Sherlock asked “So, was I right?”

“Me and Harry don’t get along, never have. Harry and Clara split up three months ago, they’re getting a separation. Harry has a Happy pill problem.”

Sherlock looked the happiest that John had seen him. “Spot on, then. I didn’t expect to be right about everything.”

“Harry’s short for Harriet.”

To his alarm, Sherlock stopped in the middle of the road. “Sister!”

“What are you doing?” John hissed, grabbing the other man’s arm and pulling him forward, waiting for a warning to be called out. Sherlock was lucky, because apparently no one had observed his split-second stop. 

Sherlock did not look like he cared at all. “Sister. There’s always something.”

“Warning-”

John’s heart dropped. It looked like they had caught Sherlock after all. He shouldn’t have pointed out the mistake, it was nothing in the face of everything else Sherlock had figured out about him. 

“-number 26.”

It wasn’t them. John turned to look. Everybody did. Number 26 was one of the boys he remembered watching earlier. He was hopping along the side of the half-track, trying in vain to tie his laces. 

“It’s just a lace!” John could hear him shouting at the soldiers training their rifles at him. “It’s…I can walk. Just let me tie the lace!”

“Warning, warning, number 26.”

Number 26 fumbled with his laces. John could see his fingers shaking. 

“Please,” he begged. “Please, please…”

“Warning, warning, warning, number 26.”

John wanted to look away. He had seen enough death during his deployment. He knew it would disturb him to see this pointless death, but he could not turn away. 

3 shots rang out, and number 26’s lifeless body flopped onto the half-track. 

 

John shuddered and forced himself to look away. He wondered what Sherlock thought, only to find that Sherlock was not paying attention to him or to the dead boy. He was scanning the crowd. John saw him breathe an almost imperceptible sigh of relief when his eyes alighted on Victor's form, walking stiffly at the front of the formation. 

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock's eyes were alive and dancing when he deigned to answer John. "The Game is on."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *small voice to the wind*
> 
> reviews, anyone? suggestions are really welcome.


	3. Riddles in the Dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, chappie three. Enjoy. Character death, but surely you've have figured that out by now.

The mood, surprisingly, lifted to its highest after number 26’s body fell out of sight. Maybe it was partly adrenaline, or maybe it was because the Walkers could finally feel their goal inching into sight. Now that the first of their number had been ticketed, every Walker saw his chances increase by slight margin, and every single one of them was secure in the knowledge that the chances of them being the next was still relatively low. 

John searched the column around him for familiar faces, despite knowing that forming such attachments would not help him in the long run. Victor, as ever, was in the lead. Lestrade was walking beside Sherlock and John could see Anderson veering through the Walkers to join them. 

“-long do you think this one will go on for?”

John caught the tail-end of Lestrade’s question to Sherlock, but he knew exactly what the former officer was saying. 

Sherlock shrugged before saying “Glasgow’s the limit, I suppose.”

Everyone knew about the year the Walk went to Glasgow. It was the longest Walk in the history of the Empire, lasting for a whole two weeks before the final ticket had been delivered just outside the city’s limits. 

“If the weather holds up, we might even make it to Aberdeen.” Anderson said. “It’s a pretty strong crowd this year.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Yes, thank you for your input.”

Anderson’s face crumpled slightly and he and Lestrade fell back, undoubtedly bitching about Sherlock. 

“That wasn’t very nice.”

“I’m not here to be nice.”

And that was one of the things that had been playing on John’s mind ever since Sherlock had spelled his life out earlier. Why was such a brilliant man, who could have, and must have, risen to great heights within the Administration, be here amongst thins rag-tag bunch of no-hopers and desperate loners? 

“Why are you here, then?”

Sherlock did not answer him for a long time. John decided about to apologise and change the conversation, because he wasn’t really up to talking about his reason for Walking either. 

“Yesterday, at Windsor, did you see the man standing behind the float that Britannia was on? The one with the three-piece charcoal suit and the umbrella.”

“No.”

That drew a sigh from Sherlock. “No one ever does.”

“Well, who is he?”

“The most dangerous man you’ve ever crossed paths with.” Sherlock gestured at the half-track and to the soldiers on the Jeeps. “I’m sure you’ve seen the cameras mounted on the Jeeps; you’ve been looking at them more than is normal.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“And I’m sure you know of the camera network in the City.”

“Who doesn’t?”

“Well, he’s the man that controls it all. Nothing happens, not in the City, not in the country, not even here, that he doesn’t know of. There’s no such thing as yours or mine. Or secrets. He owns secrecy.”

The hairs on the back of John’s neck stood on end. The skies seemed to have darkened suddenly. 

“He is the British government, when he’s not too busy being the British Secret Service or the Commonwealth Security Regime on a freelance basis. And he’s my enemy. My archenemy, in fact.”

John wondered for a brief moment whether Sherlock was delusional, and whether he was on the right side of the genius/madness divide. 

“That doesn’t happen,” John finally said. “People don’t have archenemies in real life.”

Sherlock kept his gaze ahead, away from John, but there was something almost vulnerable in his next question. “What do people have then, in their real lives?”

“Friends. People they like, people they don’t like. Girlfriends, boyfriends.”

“Dull.”

“You don’t have a girlfriend then?”

“Girlfriend, no, not really my area.”

It took a moment for realisation to click in John’s head. Was Sherlock telling him what he thought he was? John remembered the way he confronted Victor earlier, the way the two of them seemed to gravitate together before pointedly ignoring each other. 

“Do you have a boyfriend, then?”

That made Sherlock turn to look at him. His eyes were ice. 

“Which is fine, by the way.”

“I know its fine.”

“So you’ve got a boyfriend, then?”

“No.” 

The weight of Sherlock’s gaze was formidable. His eyebrows were slightly scrunched, as if he was scrutinising John’s reaction, though to what end John knew not. 

“Alright, so you’re single. Just like me. Good.”

That made Sherlock chew on his lower lip for a while. “John, I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work, and while I’m flattered by your attention, I really think this is not-”

And that was a misunderstanding John did not anticipate at all. “No, I’m not asking.”

Sherlock falls silent. 

“I’m just saying, it’s all fine.”

“Oh. Thank you.”

The awkwardness that settled between them did not seem to lift, and John nearly jogged off to join Lestrade when Sherlock asked “There was an actual wound, though?”

“Sorry?”

“Your leg, there was an actual wound?”

“Yes, but in the shoulder.”

“Left shoulder.”

“Lucky guess.”

“I never guess.”

That made John giggle. A few of the other Walkers balked at his reaction, but the corners of Sherlock’s lips lifted too. 

“I’m serious. I could tell you why each and every one of our company are Walking.”

That piqued John’s interest. “That’s not the sort of thing you cannot deduce.”

“Try me.”

“Okay, Lestrade.”

Sherlock sighed. “Dull, boring, predictable. I don’t have to deduce why Lestrade is doing this, I know. His wife left him for a much higher-ranking official, and she took their two girls with her. Lestrade’s marriage was one of convenience as well, but over the years, I think he grew attached to her.”

“So he’s doing this to prove himself to her? That’s a bit…much. But I suppose it’s a bit romantic as well.”

“No, you’re not listening to me. If he was doing this for his wife, it would be out of anger and pride. Bitterness is a paralytic. Love is a much more vicious motivator.”

“So he’s doing this for his children? He’s trying to win back his children?”

“Yes.”

John’s heart filled with sadness for Lestrade. His own motivation was born of desperation as well, but Lestrade’s need was clearly greater than his own. 

“Is that it?”

John shook himself. “Okay, what about number 18?”

Sherlock looked over, and John could see his eyes roam all over the man. It was fascinating. John tried looking as well, but all he could see was a relatively fit twenty-something youth with a somewhat interesting taste in clothing. He had opted for a loose pair of jeans, but had paired that with a pink polo t-shirt and a darker maroon jacket. 

“Well?”

“Married for more than a year, but unhappily. He probably cheats. Works in the media.”

“How did you know?”

“Look at his left hand. There’s a ring on his third finger, but it’s dull and scratched. That’s not normally an indicator of infidelity, but look at his watch and earrings. They’re polished, shiny almost, so it shows that the only item of jewellery he cannot be bothered to keep clean is his ring. State of the marriage, right there.”

“And the media?”

“He’s kept his eyes, and his good side, to the cameras. Most people don’t even know how to make eye contact with one. His hands are clean, his nails short but very well-kept. That, combined with the frankly alarming shade of pink, suggests a position in the public eye, hence the media.”

“Fantastic.” It was. It really, really was. 

Sherlock almost blushed. “Meretricious.”

“Okay, another one.”

Sherlock shrugged, as if to say ‘go ahead’.

“You.”

If Sherlock was annoyed at that, it didn’t show on his face. Instead, he said “You know my methods, apply them.”

“What, you want me to deduce you?”

“I don’t do what I do because I’m magic. You see the same things I do, but you just don’t observe. I suggest you start doing so.”

“Alright. Well, then.” John let his eyes roam over Sherlock, properly taking him in for the first time since they had met. The younger – which he was, undeniably – man’s coat was clearly expensive. Underneath, he wore a suit paired a dark polo t-shirt. It was a stylish combination; one that would keep him warm, certainly, but which could not be as comfortable as a jumper or flannel. Conclusion - he was practical, but not without some vanity. 

His clean accent belied a good education, and Lestrade had mentioned him dropping by at random earlier, so he would not have a menial or time-bound job. It would be one with some flexibility. Those kinds of jobs, along with the education and the clothes, came from privilege. Sherlock was from the ruling class, or from their right hands at the very least. 

What would drive a young man, with enough opportunities to live a good and comfortable life, to join the Walk? Try as he might, the only reason John could see was-

“Ennui.”

“Bless, John.” Sherlock smiled a little, a genuine smile instead of the raptor-like grimace he brandished at Anderson earlier. “You have a good eye, but you weren’t listening to me earlier.”

“Huh?”

“My archenemy? The one which you insisted shouldn't exist." 

"You're doing this to fight an enemy?" John could not see the logic in that. "With enemies like you, who needs friends?"

His name is Mycroft Holmes.”

“Holmes? As in, your father?”

“Brother.”

“So, you’re telling me that your brother rules the Empire?” John could not keep the disbelief from bleeding into his question. 

Sherlock’s eyes were fierce, almost inviting a challenge, when they turned on him. “Yes, more or less. He makes all of the important decisions.” 

It was crazy, but John could not bring himself not to believe Sherlock. He could see through everyone and everything in a matter of seconds, so why would he lie about this?

“So, you’re doing this to what? Piss him off? The Empire’s banned gap years overseas, so you Walk instead, you know, contrary for the sake of being contrary thing. Is that it?” 

That made Sherlock laugh a bit. “That’s a side-effect, certainly. But give me a little credit, John. I’m here for a very good reason. In fact, it’s the best. If there is still a decent bone left amongst you lot, you’d all throw yourselves off a cliff this instant and let me win.”

Now it was John’s turn to laugh, but it was the uneasy laugh of a man who had looked into a mirror hoping to see a reflection and had instead been shown his soul. “Well, what is it then?”

“We - our family - have an island. It's a barren outcrop of rocks, really, out there in the Bering straits. Our great-grandfather bought it because he liked shrimping, and there’s very little on it save for an empty hut, some wild dogs and a couple of raincoats that we forgot when we went there for holidays once when Mummy was feeling nostalgic. When I win, I’m going to ask for Mycroft to be exiled to that island, naked as the day he was born."

Sherlock smiled again, and this time John could see fire dancing in his eyes. "And then I’m going to rip the Empire to shreds.”

XXXXX

The afternoon sky had darkened in an instant as thunderclouds passed over them, and lowered the previously giddy mood. The Walkers had just passed a sign for Bristol when it started raining – a light but persistent drizzle that made their breaths fog before them. John zipped up his well-worn leather jacket, hoping that the rain would let up soon. 

It did not. 

As the road became more and more slippery, it became treacherous. Several Walkers slipped, earning them warnings. More warnings were issued to Walkers who, in their caution, had slowed their pace to lower than the requisite 5 miles per hour. 

And then it happened. Number 41, who was a tubby, good-natured fellow called Mike, slipped and fell, and everyone heard the sickening crack of his ankle snapping. 

“Warning, number 41.”

John saw him try to stand, but it was no use. 

“Warning, warning, number 41.”

Mike’s eyes bulged and he began to crawl forward on his hands and knees. John walked past him at that point and kept walking. There was no point lingering or trying to help him – there was nothing anyone could do at this point. 

“Warning, warning, warning, number 41.”

He was ticketed soon after, and so it was that they lost their second Walker. 

When darkness fell, the gravity of their situation became clear to John. There were no lights on the dirt track they were walking on, other than intermittent flashes from the headlights of the Jeeps that roved in the half-track. The track itself was uneven and slippery. The rain made it difficult to clearly see or hear anything. More and more warnings were issued, but John could hardly make out the numbers that were being called out. He had no idea whether they were calling his own, or how close he was to being ticketed, so he stuck to a fast walk. 

He thought he heard a number of tickets being delivered, but it was impossible to tell whether they were actually tickets or whether it was thunder. To keep himself occupied and to calm his nerves, John took to scanning the Walkers for familiar faces. It was becoming a habit of his, he knew, but it did not worry him too much; not when number 16 had taken to singing Amazing Grace. It was an executable offence, to pray, but apparently Walking gave you immunity to these mundane things, John supposed. 

Lestrade was behind him, still beside the other police officer. Anderson was to his left, walking next to the half-track where there was the most light. Sherlock, surprisingly, was at the front, next to Victor. Their coat collars were turned up and John could not see whether they were speaking to each other, but every now and again one would reach out to guide the other a certain way. The Walkers behind them had taken to following in the path they picked out, and John could see now why Victor was the favourite to win the Walk; why there would be people in every town holding up banners with his name on it. It was easier to dislike Victor when he was just a symbol for the Empire, but now that he knew the man, John was finding it more and more difficult to be able to wish for his downfall. 

XXXXX

Dawn broke, but John only recognised it as such because the sky lightened to a dark grey instead of the pitch black it was earlier. The rain still lashed down as the Walkers exited Bristol. John ate his last MRE, knowing full well that their supplies would be replenished in Cardiff. 

Now that the soldiers had stopped calling out warnings, he allowed his pace to slow enough to bring him by Lestrade’s side. The older man was soaked through, and shivered despite the thick trench coat wrapped around him. 

“You alright, mate?”

“Peachy,” he stopped to cough. ‘Sides, this isn’t rain. I’ve patrolled in worse.”

“That’s good to know. Taxpayer dollars being put to good use and all that.” John joked, but he unexpectedly found himself face to face with Lestrade’s mortality. He wondered then whether it would have been better never to have exchanged names with Lestrade or Sherlock or Victor or Anderson, just like Sherlock had said when the Walk first began. 

Lestrade laughed with him, but turned serious in short order. “Listen, John, I was wondering…”

John knew where the conversation was going, and he did not want this burden laid on his shoulders, but he could not bring himself to dismiss Lestrade. “Yes?”

“We both know it was a long shot for me. I just had to do it, you know, because-”

“Because you love your children,” John finished. He owed Lestrade honesty, at the very least. 

Surprise coloured Lestrade’s features for a moment, but then he asked “Sherlock?”

“Yeah.”

Lestrade sighed. “I didn’t tell him any of this. He just waltzed into my office and deduced my life bit by bit. It felt rude and intrusive at first, but after a while you realise that Sherlock sees the world a bit differently. A fact’s a fact, sort of, nevermind what it means to whom the fact is happening to.”

“I can’t imagine he has a lot of friends.”

“I don’t think it will be long before he has one less.” Lestrade coughed and cleared his throat again. “Listen, John, about my kids. If I don’t finish the Walk, could you, I don’t know, make sure they’re alright? Like maybe, look them up and see whether they’re doing okay? I know it’s a lot to ask-”

“I’ll do it.”

“Really? I know it’s a lot to ask, but…”

“If we don’t look out for each other, who will? The Empire?” John tried to keep his voice light, but he knew that the both of them heard the crack at the end of that sentence. In their short time together, he had grown genuinely fond of Lestrade. 

“You know, I never caught your first name.”

“It’s Greg.”

XXXXX

When John caught sight of Anderson, he jogged over. “Remember me?”

“John Watson! Nice to see you still up and about.

“I thought I heard some tickets being delivered last night. Did you hear anything?”

“Better than that. I know exactly how many. We’re down to 34 now.”

John shuddered. He could not shake the feeling that he had been a lot closer to death last night than he had expected. “Do you know Lestrade?”

Anderson nodded. “Number 22, right? Pretty decent fellow, I had a chat with him the other night.”

“Well, he’s married with kids.”

Anderson sucked in a breath between his teeth. “Why’d he join anyway?”

“For his kids. Listen, if goes bad for him, he’s wondering whether the winner would be willing to watch out for his girls. I said yes.”

“Yeah, sure. It’s not too much to ask for.”

XXXXX

And so the call went up and down the column of Walkers – most of the people who had made Lestrade’s acquaintance agreed to look in on his girls; to remind them that that their father was a hero. Victor agreed most graciously, and even offered to ensure that the girls would be seen through university.   
John turned to Sherlock. “You’ll help, right?”

“No.”

That shocked John. He did not expect that of Sherlock, especially since he had known Lestrade before. “What? Why?”

“Will caring about his children help save him, or help me get through this Walk?”

John knew where this line of questioning was heading; he could see it like a pair of derailed trains on their way to a collision. “Nope.”

“Then I’ll continue not to make that mistake.”

“And you find that easy, do you?”

“Yes, very. Is that news to you?”

“No.” As John answered Sherlock, he was surprised as to how true his denial was. He had known all along that when it came down to it, Sherlock would cut them all loose. That didn’t stop it from hurting, though.

“I’ve disappointed you.”

“That’s a brilliant deduction, that.”

“Don’t make people into heroes, John. Heroes don’t exist and if they did I wouldn’t be one of them.”

It felt like betrayal. Sherlock owed no loyalty to him to betray, but that was what it felt like. John shook his head and dropped back to his usual spot in the middle of the formation. 

XXXXX

Lestrade gave in after the rainclouds finally clear and they emerge from a dip in the road to find the sun shining down on them. John saw him raise his fever-dazed eyes to the sky and breathe deeply, as if tasting the air for the first time, and he knew. He met Lestrade’s eyes one last time and saluted, a proper military salute, and got a dazzling smile in return. A moment later, he sat down. 

“Warning, number 29.”

The other Walkers parted around him and carried on, some of them looking curiously, and the others choosing not to inflict themselves with the imagery. John kept his eyes ahead – Lestrade had become a dear friend, and he did not want to see his inevitable end. 

“Warning, warning, number 29.”

Victor started running, as if he would have the time to get out of earshot. Sherlock startled at the sudden movement, but made no attempt to keep up. 

“Warning, warning, warning, number 29.”

Ticket.

And then they were 33.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Review, review, review! 
> 
> Please?


	4. Inside Information

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a bit short, and a bit speech-y, but it's a necessary part of the story. 
> 
> Victorlock makes its reappearance :P

Cardiff was a street-party the likes of which John had never seen before, more so than London. People were waving banners and wearing printed t-shirts with the faces of surviving Walkers on them. They didn't seem afraid of the soldiers at all, instead crowding along the track on the opposite side of the half-track, waving and wolf-whistling at the Walkers as they passed through.

John was startled to find that some of young girls had taken to holding out drinks in foil packets to the Walkers. He didn't dare take any of them, in case that was against the rules, but one of the Walkers finally did and nothing happened to him.

The Mayor of Cardiff was there to greet them, like Britannia, from atop a float. This time, John noticed the grey-suited man at the back of the float, standing with the Mayor's aides and other important political persons. His cold gaze swept over everything like spotlights, and john forced himself to avert his eyes before he could attract the elder Holmes' attention.

He looked ahead to see Sherlock staring blatantly in his direction. Finally, Mycroft saw fit to meet his gaze, and a small smirk showed on his otherwise unimpassioned face. Sherlock stuck two fingers up at him. John wondered what the Christmas dinners were like in that family, and realised that he really didn't want to know.

At the front, Victor was wooing his already vast multitude of fans by waving and shaking hands with them as he walked past. Some of the girls threw scarves at him, and when he tied a rose-patterend one around his neck, a loud cheer erupted from crowd. Young men reached out for high-fives and Victor gave them gladly.

Sherlock, from where he had fallen back, instead glared at the few people who dared to stick their hands out to him. When Victor offered him a bouquet of carnations he had been given, Sherlock instead walked over to John's side looking like he was sucking on lemons.

"What's your problem with Victor?" John asked.

"I haven't any problems with Victor."

"You've clearly got a problem with him being here, then."

"And you're clearly incurably nosy, so here we are." Sherlock snapped. Then he sighed and crossed his arms. "Anyway, what difference does it make? It's not like any one of us can back out now."

A soldier handed him a ration card at that point, and John hurriedly took one for himself. Sherlock absently reached out for his and tucked it into his coat pocket.

"Victor and I were at uni together. We met when the dog he wasn't supposed to keep bit me one day. I helped him fabricate a story about an escaped sheep dog and crack-of-dawn expeditions to collect dew samples and we got away with it. You must understand that I was never the most sociable of people; I was constantly locked away in the labs or in my room, experimenting or researching something or rather. Victor, on the other hand, as a PPE grad, was everything I was not, and somehow, we got along. I liked his company – he wasn't trying to copy my work or insulting my intelligence with stupid questions or trying to make me come to parties – and Victor," he paused for a while "Victor was attracted to me, I could tell, but he knew I wasn't interested and he never brought it up, so it was never an issue between us."

They were now close to the remains of the old railway station at the centre of Cardiff, which had been turned into a museum not long ago, celebrating the advancements made by the Empire into biofuels and low-energy transportation. There were so many people gathered there that John wondered whether the entire town had turned out to see them. Sherlock continued as if nothing was happening.

"I don't know how familiar you are with Victor's history, but his mother died when he was a child. His father raised him alone, and he loved his father more than anything in the world. He wanted to follow in his father's footsteps, to become a Justice of the Peace so that he could save people from the Empire whilst working within it. I favoured more extreme measures, naturally, but that didn't make his intentions less noble.

Victor invited me to his house for the summer holidays. His father's library contained some of the old law reports and judgments, from before they were all burned. At that time, I hadn't considered honing my deductive abilities because there wasn't a market for it, not even on the Underground. When Victor's father heard about it, he was curious and asked me to deduce him."

At this point, bitterness crept into Sherlock's voice. "In my eagerness to impress, I went further than I normally would have and uncovered some dangerous and upsetting things from his past, things not even Victor knew about. The old man was so shocked at the revelations that he had a heart attack, from which he never recovered."

He knew it was futile to express sympathy, so John remained silent. He never contemplated before this the term 'poor little rich boy', but he was beginning to understand what it meant.

"We never spoke after that. Victor took on his father's mantle, and I think that made him feel the loss even more keenly. He never approved of the Walk, he thought it was cruel and pointless. He thought it represented the worst of the Empire - that it uses the blood of the people to oil the cogs that keep it running. For him to have joined it means that the happy face he's showing you and the rest of these mindless idiots is a facade. It means he doesn't care about living anymore. So yes, John, I have a problem with Victor doing the Walk, because I'm the reason that he's here."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's not much to review, but it would still be nice to hear anything anyone has to say.


	5. The Gathering of the Clouds

The route took them north from the railway museum towards Cardiff Castle. John found his attention drawn to the magnificently preserved Animal Wall of the castle, which contained beautifully carved sculptures of various animals not native to Britain. The lion looked particularly wonderful, he thought, but there was no way of telling whether it was real or whether the artist had made embellishments; lions had become extinct at the turn of the century.

 

The greenery of the castle grounds were a welcome relief from the sun. People were not normally allowed inside the castle grounds, where the Mayor lived, so while John could hear the cheering of the multitude still amassed outside the walls, their presence became less oppressive.

 

“You two have become very close.”

 

Victor’s presence took him by surprise. “Sorry?”

 

“Sherlock.” John glanced around to see that Sherlock had fallen to the back of the column, and was walking at a dangerously slow pace as he took in all of the detail of the ancient architecture that any one of them would not have had the chance to observe otherwise.

 

Denial was on the tip of his tongue, but at that moment, he realised that what Victor was saying was true. He shrugged instead.

 

“Well, friendly word of advice, don’t fall for him.”

 

“I’m not gay,” he said automatically. It was true; he was not in the least bit tempted to shag Sherlock, no matter how cool he looked with his cheekbones and his coat collar turned up.

 

Victor just laughed, almost bitterly. “Neither am I, but he’s exceptional in more ways than one.”

“You loved him.”

 

This time, it was Victor who shrugged. “Maybe I still do. Or maybe I loved the idea of him. But take it from someone who’s been down this road, don’t let it come to that. Sherlock Holmes is no more capable of loving than he is of growing wings and flying. I’m not saying this out of bitterness or because I’m jealous, you must understand. He’s just wired differently.”

 

“Even if I were tempted, which I’m not, this is hardly the time and place for it, is it?”

 

“It’s going to be a struggle to remember that, ere the end. I haven’t seen him for years, and all it took was one night leading the column together to…well, I wouldn’t want to bore you with the details.” Victor smiled, a genuine smile that had John liking and pitying him at the same time. “Cheerio, John Watson. The castle gate approaches, and I must hasten to my fandom.”

 

XXXXX

 

Cardiff was a street-party the likes of which John had never seen before. Cardiff was also the beginning of the end.

 

The Walkers had walked out of the castle gates and back into the city centre to the sound of mass adulation, and collected souvenirs in the form of scarves and pins and offerings of food and marvelled at the feeling of seeing their faces on a banner. The second round of MREs and chocolate bars had been distributed. John remembered looking up and thinking that it was kind of the sun to have turned up for the jubilation.

 

That was when tragedy struck.

 

They approached the motorway again, from where they would then take to the dirt paths that ran through the undisturbed Welsh countryside. Unlike London, where the crowd had thinned out as they left the city limits, here it appeared as though people were camped out the very limits in order to see the Walkers off.

 

Sherlock was walking by his side again, still openly glaring at Mycroft, who rode atop a Jeep in the half-track with the Mayor. Anderson, who had been told off earlier as he attempted to join them in conversation, was engaged in some sort of barter exchange with another Walker John remembered being introduced to him as Dimmock. Victor, as usual, lead the column.

 

There was a bit of a commotion in the crowd, and it drew John’s attention. A heavy-set man in a thick fishing jumper was arguing with some of the people close to him. He kept pointing at the Mayor and the men around him seemed to be making placatory gestures. As they drew closer, John could hear what he was saying.

 

“He killed her,” the man was saying. “It should have been hers, but he took it.”

 

“That’s interesting,” Sherlock commented. John followed his line of sight to see Mycroft giving orders to one of the soldiers. As he watched, the Mayor was let off the Jeep and whisked away in an armoured car.

 

At the Mayor’s disappearance, the man let out a howl of rage and climbed over into the track. He clutched something in his hand, and it took a moment for John to put two and two together to realise that he was a suicide bomber. For a moment, the Cardiff countryside slipped away and the heat of the desert came up around him, stifling in its intensity.

 

Then the soldiers in the half-track cocked their guns and aimed it at him. Before they could bring him down, he yelled “Down with the Empire!” and detonated himself. Instinctively, John threw himself at Sherlock and brought them both crashing down near the half track.

 

Chaos erupted.

 

Someone was screaming.

 

“Warning, number 11.”

 

“Warning, number 19.”

 

“Warning, number 44.”

 

“Warning, number 36.”

 

“Warning, warning, number 11.”

 

He only realised he was still holding Sherlock down under him when the latter squirmed and elbowed him in the gut. “That’s me,” he said. “Two warnings.”

 

John didn’t stop to wonder how the soldiers could be so heartless not to give them even a moment to gather themselves after their failure to take down the suicide bomber when he entered the track; he dragged himself upright and started walking again. He was relieved to discover that neither he nor Sherlock had been injured by the explosion, although he could see a soldier lying dead in the half-track in front of them.

 

“Warning, number 1.”

 

Sherlock suddenly shoved past him and ran ahead.

 

In front, Victor was on his knees. His cream coloured cricket jumper was blotched with burn marks and he seemed to be struggling to get up. Sherlock ran to his side and, without slowing down himself, caught Victor’s arm and pulled him up. Victor stumbled at first, but he kept pace with Sherlock. John jogged to catch up with them, and he could see that the skin on Victor’s back was burnt and bleeding.

 

From behind him, a wail sounded. Number 36, who had been closest to the bomber, was nothing more than a mess of bleeding limbs and pain. When the soldiers gave him his final warning and ticket, it was a mercy. That could have been me, John thought, but for dumb luck. That could have been Sherlock.

 

Shaking those thoughts from his head, he drew alongside Sherlock and Victor. Both of their faces were drained of colour. Blood ran freely from Victor’s nose. He saw John and gave him a shaky smile.

 

“It’s not as bad as it looks, Johnny boy.”

 

“Let me have a look, I was an army medic.”

 

“What luck,” Victor laughed. “What wonderful luck.”

 

With Sherlock’s help, he stripped the ruined jumper and shirt from Victor’s torso. It was slow going, and the other Walkers soon passed them, but no further warnings were called out so it seemed that they were still moving faster than the limit of 5 miles per hour. They made Victor bend forward, so that his upper body was parallel to the road, and emptied their canteens over his back. That way, his trousers were spared from being wet.

 

Once the blood and burn marks were scrubbed away, John saw that Victor’s wounds were not as bad as they had looked earlier. There were a few deep-ish gauges that he would have recommended stitching up, and a couple of burns that would be quite painful as they scabbed over and healed, but there was no damage to his bones or organs.

 

“You’ll live,” he said, somewhat more enthusiastically than he intended “as long as this doesn’t get infected. I’ll keep an eye on it and make sure that it doesn’t. I wouldn’t recommend wearing your jumper again, because that’ll be contaminated with all sorts of debris and blood and you’re more likely to get an infection from that as you are from being exposed to the open air. Do you think you can handle walking topless for a while?”

 

“As long as the weather holds out, I think I’ll be fine.”

 

XXXXX

 

The weather does hold out, but Victor does not.

 

After the smattering of agricultural settlements outside the city limits fell away and they took to the mountain road, John caught him staring off into space several times. The change in him was so obvious as to be painful; where he once was the one with his head in the game, he now seemed to have lost all direction. He didn’t walk anymore, but seemed to wander aimlessly behind Shelly, who grew increasingly frustrated at his friend’s sudden incapacity.

 

“Maybe you should eat something,” John finally suggested. “It’ll keep you warm.”

 

Victor nodded and took out one of his chocolate bars, but his hands shook so much as he unwrapped it that it fell from the wrapper to the ground without so much as having been sniffed at.

 

“Oh dear,” said Victor.

 

Sherlock snaps. “Oh dear? What in God’s name has gotten into you? The blast was traumatic, yes, but people have Walked with injuries far worse. It’s just transport – pull yourself together and you won’t even feel the – what, couple of scratches? – that you seem to think takes you out of the running.”

 

Victor regarded him coolly. “Did you hear what the bomber was saying before he stepped onto the track?”

 

Shelly looked to be on the verge of saying something especially mean, so John answered for him. “Yeah, he was saying something about a robbery or someone taking something or rather.”

 

“Well, I heard everything. His son was supposed to have a heart transplant – I still haven’t the faintest idea how he must have managed that – but I’m sure you all remember what last year’s winner asked for.”

 

Of course John did. The winner of last year’s Walk was still being used as the face of the Empire’s propaganda posters; he was a decorated former Malayan war veteran who had wished for a heart for his ailing sister. He was the epitome of the unselfish, heroic citizen who everyone else was supposed to try to emulate.

 

John already knew the story was going to end, and as much as he loathed to believe that the Empire would really rob a man of a heart, he could see it happening all too easily. He could understand now the rage of the bomber and the reason why he had decided to target this year’s Walkers.

 

And yet, it was so unfair that, of all people, it was kind, affable Victor who had to bear the brunt of his assault. Who else, John’s mind asked, who would you have chosen to take his place? Yourself? Sherlock? Anderson?

 

Sherlock snorted. “Look at the both of you. You feel sorry for him.”

 

“And you don’t?” John asked before he could catch himself. “Oh, wait, you don’t do sympathy.”

 

“What he did makes no sense, and more than that, it was spiteful.”

 

“My dear Sherlock,” Victor suddenly said, sounding a lot brighter than he had moments ago, “would I be right to say that you wouldn’t be as diametrically opposed to what he did if the person caught in the blast hadn’t been me?”

 

“No, if it were John or Lestrade I’d-”

 

“Not them either. Maybe number 23.”

 

Sherlock looked uncomfortable. “No, I don’t think so.”

 

“And why is that?”

 

“Because you are allies, at least at this stage. You’re still likely to work together with me to ensure our continued survival.”

 

“Wrong!” Victor looked gleeful, and John was forced to seriously consider whether he was becoming hysterical. Sherlock, on the other hand, seemed less worried about his friend than he was incensed. The blonde man poked Sherlock in the chest. “It’s sentiment.”

 

When Sherlock didn’t say anything in response, he continued. “You know that thing you constantly accuse us of, that you insist makes us behave illogically? Sentiment? Welcome to the club, Sherly darling.”

 

John expected Sherlock to cut him down, or perhaps to point out coldly that Victor was being delusional, but he kept his silence.

 

The conversation died after that, and it wasn’t long before they were all focused on simply walking. The countryside, despite the fog and desolation, or maybe because of it, looked beautiful, and John found himself taking time to appreciate the view. He hadn’t seen much of the Empire outside London, not even when he was serving in the forces, and he knew that if he survived, he would have seen much more of the Empire than anyone he knew.

 

As night fell, John worried that it would become more difficult to see, and wondered how many more tickets would be dealt out before the sun rose again. After a while, though, he realised that he didn’t have to worry. The night sky above them was clear and as darkness fell, one by one, stars began to twinkle. By the time the soldiers in the half-track put their headlights on, the sky was like a glittering black blanket; breathtakingly beautiful. John heard appreciative murmurs behind him, but he said nothing. Having lived in London all his life, he’d never seen stars like this.

 

“It makes you forget the awful world we live in, doesn’t it?”

 

It was Victor’s voice, and although John could hear him, he knew that the person being addressed was Sherlock. Not caring about how obvious he was being, John turned around to look at the two friends-turned-antagonists-but-not-quite.

 

They were both walking side by side, but Victor was now wearing Sherlock’s long coat. Sherlock looked unbothered by the night air in his suit jacket and polo t-shirt, save for the fact that his hands were stuffed into the pockets of his trousers. Victor looked comfortable in wrapped in the warm woollen coat, but his posture was not that of a leader anymore; he leaned on Sherlock as they Walked, and every so often his hand came up to grasp at Sherlock’s arm.

 

For someone who claimed not to be prey to sentiment, Sherlock was surprisingly tolerant, even kind, to Victor.

 

Their faces were turned upwards, marvelling at the stars, and Sherlock finally says “Yes.”

 

“It’s a sort of nice end to it all, isn’t it?” Victor said wistfully. John tried to ignore the voice inside his head that said that Victor wouldn’t stand a chance if he carried on like this.

 

“Hardly. In fact, I think it’s a wonderful beginning.”

 

John felt as confused as Victor looked. Beginning?

 

“Of what?” Victor asked.

 

“This.” Sherlock leaned in, not slowing for a moment, and kissed him.

 

John nearly stopped walking. Victor would have too, had it not been for Sherlock’s grasp on his arm. They kissed for what felt like a long time, and John let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding when they parted.

 

“What was that?!”

 

“Something I’ve always wanted to do. You’re right, I am susceptible to sentiment. I learnt that a long time ago, when you would come over to my room, high on H-pills or whatever else you could lay your hands on and quote Milton to me – at me, really – and all I wanted was for you to stop being so scared and just kiss me already.”

 

“Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock just smiled that enigmatic smile of his and held his hand out. John cheered a little when Victor took his hand, and turned away before they could see the ridiculously bright smile on his face.

 

What a beautiful night.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I haven't updated this in ages. I can't say when I'll update it again. Just so you know.


End file.
